


The Weight of It

by CoffeeJay



Category: Katana ZERO (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Kidnapping, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Excessive Use of Metaphors and Symbolism, Gen, Homicidal Ideation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Murder, One Shot, but in a nice way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 16:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19429888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeJay/pseuds/CoffeeJay
Summary: There it was, a whole crate of Chronos, open, glittering, splattered with blood-- liters upon liters of Chronos, enough to last him for months.It was his for the taking.





	The Weight of It

There it was, a whole crate of Chronos, open, glittering, splattered with blood-- liters upon liters of Chronos, enough to last him for months.

It was his for the taking.

Zero didn’t have room for a single thought beneath the rush of blood in his ears as he scrounged around the storage unit for some sort of container. There, in the corner-- a duffel bag, heavy duty, dark. It was perfect.

He shoved bottle after bottle into the bag, hands shaking, heart pounding, as many as would fit, as many as he thought he could carry, and then some more. He would concern himself with finding syringes later.

Later. For the first time, he had a later to think about. A future, not just a fragmented, splintered past.

He jammed one last bottle into the already dense duffle bag. It hardly fit. He didn’t care. He wrestled the zipper over the bottles and flung the bulging bag over his shoulder. For good measure, he stuffed two more bottles into his robes.

The weight of the Chronos was crushing him.

He couldn’t care about that.

Even after he had so looted the crate, he had hardly scratched the surface of the stash. Before him lay a lifetime supply. Then again, he considered, even a drop of Chronos could be considered a lifetime supply. He couldn’t take all of it. He couldn’t even take half of it, but he had to go. The longer he waited, the harder it would be to get away.

He stole back the few seconds he had spent hesitating and instead left as soon as he had grabbed the final bottle. He stuffed it back into his robe as he ran, glass clinking, clinking--

Crack.

Chronos leaked from the bag’s seams, dribbling down his back, mingling with his sweat, liquid life going to waste.

That wouldn’t do.

He stuffed the last bottle into his robe and crept out of the storage unit, carefully this time. Dead eyes followed him as he went. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care. Not yet.

His load weighed heavily on him. All the noise and strain wasn’t a problem within the radius of bodies he had created, but outside of them, they drew attention. If anybody saw him, he made sure they wouldn’t. He took back alleys, rooftops, fire escapes, anything to avoid being noticed.

Whether he was more desperately hiding the blood on his clothes or the drugs on his back, he wasn’t sure.

He didn’t stop until he reached a certain rooftop garden a few blocks away from his apartment. Sometimes, there were fruits or vegetables there for him to steal. He hadn’t come for that. He was more concerned with the hose he could always count on finding coiled up by the stairwell.

Gingerly as he could, he lugged the bag off his shoulder and set it down in the garden bed. Then, he took the extra vials of Chronos from his robes and set them down with it before he reached for the hose.

He had rinsed the blood from his hands a million times, and they never, ever felt clean.

The moment he had rendered himself presentable, he cast the hose aside, took up his load, and slid down the fire escape.

A raspy voice down the alley rang out in alarm and accusation, a gun clicking readiness across the bricks--

The moment he had rendered himself presentable, he cast the hose aside, took up his load, and peered over the edge of the roof. A man and his cigarette smoldered at the alley’s dead end. There was no way around him or his gun. There was Chronos, now. It was far too risky.

Zero waited.

He waited, and for the first time in an eternity remembered what it meant to have one’s time so acutely wasted. Now that he once again had time, a future, to waste, he wanted to cling to every drop.

That man and his cigarette were burning it away.

Zero slid down the fire escape and cut the man’s life shorter than the cigarette was managing. But then, he had gotten the man’s blood on his face, on his hands. He had already washed himself clean. Now there was more blood.

He peered over the edge of the roof, and the stench of smoke rolled past his face.

There was a little girl waiting in his apartment. She didn’t like blood.

Zero waited. The man stole only a minute more before he sent his cigarette sizzling out on the wet pavement and left.

The clink of Chronos announced his every move as he continued through the streets, but to Zero, it sounded more like a heartbeat. He wondered how he would explain it to the little girl. Perhaps he could borrow some of his doctor’s lies. The child was full of questions, but easily placated.

There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that she would go with him.

His crumbling apartment building lurched into view, and he lurched into it, the strain of the drug burning his limbs, dragging against his upward climb. By the time he reached his door, he was panting, sweating.

Grinning.

The little girl was right where he had left her, already bubbling with questions. He didn’t answer them. He had time for that later.

Instead, he told her to go pack a bag. They were going on a trip. Somewhere far away. Somewhere better. She, at least, deserved somewhere better.

Just as he had predicted, just as he had hoped, she hurried away to gather her things from a home where neither she nor her things would be missed.

Not for the first time, he considered killing the man who called himself her father, but the little girl-- she didn’t like blood.

He had time now, but he needed to hurry, before she returned. He didn’t want her to see the drugs-- not yet, at least. Not if she didn’t have to. The bag of Chronos clinked on the countertop where he set it while he rooted around for a syringe. He always kept a spare syringe.

His hands trembled as they handled the bottle, filled the syringe, primed the needle. Chronos was what he needed, but the power of holding it himself was a high of its own. With his first dose of freedom in hand, he hurried to his couch and took his medicine.

The drug shot through him in a pulse, warping everything, clouding his kitchen, his apartment, his whole world in a shock of color. A century squeezed itself from the shot, blue racing up his arm and filling up the static air. He watched the amount of blue in the syringe get lower, lower, lower, until it was all in his arm, all in the air--

But then it faded from the air, the blue haze evaporating until all that was left was red.

A fire crackled beside him, but he couldn’t feel its heat. He couldn’t feel anything at all except the sting of a needle being plucked from his arm by familiar hands that were not his own.

Perhaps next time, the psychiatrist told him, they would have time to discuss his dreams.


End file.
